1MARGOT
Standing at the foot of my bed, I stare down at the two shirts I’ve laid out, wondering which one will make me look less like a liar. The flouncy pink one with roses is definitely giving Tenderhearted Romance Author (the exact image I’m aiming for), but is it trying too hard? The other option (crisp, white, sleeveless) has more of an edge, but is ittooedgy? Will my readers take one look at the aggressively high neckline and know I’m hiding something?
I realize the same sort of wardrobe questions probably run through the mind of a serial killer preparing to take the stand. Except in my case, the jury will be hundreds of my most devoted readers, and instead of a court hearing, I’ll be feigning innocence during a live stream promotional event for my latest book. Which starts in—I glance at my alarm clock—twelve minutes.Shit.
I cross my arms over my bra in a futile attempt to self-soothe. After six novels and their subsequent book tours, one would think I’d have this whole living-a-lie thing locked down by now. Or that I’d at least be able to pick out a shirt. But according to my underboob sweat, one would be wrong. Because despite occupying the body of #1New York TimesBestselling Author Margot Bradley(the title my publicist insists every interviewer, podcaster, and unsuspecting Starbucks barista address me with), I live in perpetual fear that my fans will somehow learn the truth about me. That beneath all the romance tropes and triple-orgasm sex scenes I peddle like snake oil, I’m more jaded about love than a formerBachelorettestar, mid-divorce.
I know it begs the question:How can she write romance novels if she believes love is Satan’s pyramid scheme?To which I would answer: I haven’t always been this wise and all-knowing. No, no. Once upon my twenties, I experienced the sort of swept-off-your-feet, can’t-stop-staring-at-their-forearms, logic-melting chemistry that romance tropes are made of. I thought I’d found love in the heady rush of endorphins and desire, perilously tied to that most tenuous of human bonds—trust. Iknowthe feeling of a two-point-three-carat engagement ring sliding onto my finger. Coincidentally, I also know how it feels when that ring slides off for good. How those helium-high feelings inevitably ignite on a spark of truth and explode, crashing to earth in a fiery inferno of pain and horror.
Too much? Maybe not. I’ve found that most people who reach their thirties have experienced at least one breakup that left them subsisting on dry Froot Loops because they were too busy inwardly collapsing to pour themselves milk. I also happen to know that the brokenhearted often seek comfort and escape through the billion-dollar romance novel industry. How? Because I’ve been one of them. I learned the hard way that in this bleak swipe-left world, romance novels give hope to the hopeless. They make you believe that a sensitive, multilingual, insanely jacked doctor named Hunter is just waiting in the wings of your life, ready to laugh with you about all the toads you dated while cuddling after your nightly synchronized orgasms.
Unless you’re me, of course, and bitter experience has taught you that Dr. Hunter isn’t coming—to youorin you. So instead, youuse the faded remnants of your old hopes and dreams to write those romance novels that no longer provideyousolace but still pay your bills and comfort others. And by others, of course, I mean my readers, whose unwavering loyalty deserves to be repaid in the currency they crave most. In golden-hour kisses. In snowed-in cabins with only one bed. And above all, in Happily Ever Afters.
More than anything, it’s this particular story element that cuts the deepest to write and (when I’m willing to admit it) makes me yearn for the time when my faith in love was nearly as unshakable as my readers’. But those days are long gone, and if I had to hazard a guess, I’d say my old belief in love everlasting is probably chilling with my engagement ring at the bottom of the Pacific. It’s why I’ve had to develop the perfect coping mechanism for every HEA I write but don’t believe in: my Happily Never After file. A top secret, password-protected document that contains alternate endings to every novel I’ve ever written. They’re the endings my characterswouldhave faced if they were real people with real issues that no number of straining Henleys or rippling abdominal muscles could solve. It’s a brutal catalog of drawn-out divorces, monsters-in-law with spare house keys, parking-lot rendezvous with younger women, and unfortunate facial-hair choices. None of them are pretty, but they’re all the truth and, for me, an essential reminder to never let my guard down again.
But on bad days, when even my Happily Never After file isn’t enough to keep me writing weddings-and-babies epilogues, there’s one reason—one person—above all who keeps my fingers pounding the keyboard. A single fan I can’t bring myself to disappoint.
A knock makes me jump. I look over my shoulder, and just like magic, there she is. My sister.
“It’s eight till, Margot,” Savannah says, tilting her golden-blond head and glancing down at my underwear. “I didn’t realize your publishing contract included a striptease clause.”
“One live stream peep show for every new book launch,”I confirm, looking back toward my shirt conundrum. “According to my marketing team, sex sells.”
“And did marketing sign off on those granny panties?”
Placing my hands on my hips, I turn all the way around. “They’re retro-cut, thank you very much.Notgranny panties.”
“They cover your belly button.”
“And?”
“Do they come with a hood?”
I stick out my tongue. “Come here and help me pick out a shirt.”
Savannah straightens and starts walking. Automatically, I scan her gait, visually assessing her pain level. She’s at the tail end of a flare-up, and I worry she’s pushing it by being out of bed so soon.
“Definitely the white,” Savannah says.
“What’s wrong with the pink one?”
“Nothing. If you’re planning on rolling a joint and pulling some tarot cards.”
“It’s notthatflowy.”
Savannah picks up a sleeve that could conceal a family of raccoons in its billowy depths before letting it flutter to the bed. “Up to you. Just don’t get caught in any light breezes and sail away.”
I pull the white shirt on. “Good?”
Savannah smiles. “Beautiful. And are you planning on completing this ensemble with pants?”
I snap the very high, very beige waist of my underwear. “Over these beauties? No way. I’m working after eight on a Sunday night, and no one’s going to see me below the waist. Come on.”
I hold the door open for Savannah, who makes her way carefully toward me. On top of debilitating full-body pain, a flare-up of my sister’s cocktail of autoimmune disorders also leaves her with terrible balance. It’s disconcerting to see an otherwise healthy-looking woman in her midtwenties walk like a frail, elderly person,but I’ve grown accustomed to it the way anyone becomes used to something unbearable. By sheer necessity.
I track Savannah’s hand as it comes up to stabilize her on the doorframe. “Are you sure you don’t want me to get—”
“No, I’m fine,” she says, cutting off my offer to retrieve her cane. “Thanks, though.”
